has left her companion, Envy, to gnaw his heart. Planchet
had tasted of riches easily acquired, and was never
afterwards likely to stop in his desires; but, as he had a
good heart in spite of his covetousness, as he adored
D’Artagnan, he could not refrain from making him a thousand
recommendations, each more affectionate than the others. He
would not have been sorry, nevertheless, to have caught a
little hint of the secret his master concealed so well;
tricks, turns, counsels and traps were all useless,
D’Artagnan let nothing confidential escape him. The evening
passed thus. After supper the portmanteau occupied
D’Artagnan, he took a turn to the stable, patted his horse,
and examined his shoes and legs, then, having counted over
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his money, he went to bed, sleeping as if only twenty,
because he had neither inquietude nor remorse; he closed his
eyes five minutes after he had blown out his lamp. Many
events might, however, have kept him awake. Thought boiled
in his brain, conjectures abounded, and D’Artagnan was a
great drawer of horoscopes; but, with that imperturbable
phlegm which does more than genius for the fortune and
happiness of men of action, he put off reflection till the
next day, for fear, he said, not to be fresh when he wanted
to be so.
The day came. The Rue des Lombards had its share of the
caresses of Aurora with the rosy fingers, and D’Artagnan
arose like Aurora. He did not awaken anybody, he placed his
portmanteau under his arm, descended the stairs without
making one of them creak and without disturbing one of the
sonorous snorings in every story from the garret to the
cellar, then, having saddled his horse, shut the stable and
house doors, he set off, at a foot-pace, on his expedition
to Bretagne. He had done quite right not to trouble himself
with all the political and diplomatic affairs which
solicited his attention; for, in the morning, in freshness
and mild twilight, his ideas developed themselves in purity
and abundance. In the first place, he passed before the
house of Fouquet, and threw in a large gaping box the
fortunate order which, the evening before, he had had so
much trouble to recover from the hooked fingers of the
intendant. Placed in an envelope, and addressed to Fouquet,
it had not even been divined by Planchet, who in divination
was equal to Calchas or the Pythian Apollo. D’Artagnan thus
sent back the order to Fouquet, without compromising
himself, and without having thenceforward any reproaches to
make himself. When he had effected this proper restitution,
“Now,” said he to himself, “let us inhale much maternal air,
much freedom from cares, much health, let us allow the horse
Zephyr, whose flanks puff as if he had to respire an
atmosphere to breathe, and let us be very ingenious in our
little calculations. It is time,” said D’Artagnan, “to form
a plan of the campaign, and, according to the method of M.
Turenne, who has a large head full of all sorts of good
counsels, before the plan of the campaign it is advisable to
draw a striking portrait of the generals to whom we are
opposed. In the first place, M. Fouquet presents himself.
What is M. Fouquet? M. Fouquet,” replied D’Artagnan to
himself, “is a handsome man, very much beloved by the women,
a generous man very much beloved by the poets; a man of wit,
much execrated by pretenders. Well, now I am neither woman,
poet, nor pretender: I neither love nor hate monsieur le
surintendant. I find myself, therefore, in the same position
in which M. de Turenne found himself when opposed to the
Prince de Conde at Jargeau, Gien and the Faubourg
Saint-Antoine. He did not execrate monsieur le prince, it is
true, but he obeyed the king. Monsieur le prince is an
agreeable man, but the king is king. Turenne heaved a deep
sigh, called Conde `My cousin,’ and swept away his army. Now
what does the king wish? That does not concern me. Now, what
does M. Colbert wish? Oh, that’s another thing. M. Colbert
wishes all that M. Fouquet does not wish. Then what does M.